


Lay Me Down

by sinemoras09



Category: Blood+
Genre: Angst, Canon Backstory, F/M, Gen, Hurt, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinemoras09/pseuds/sinemoras09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whom gods destroy, they first make mad. Karl, before and after the madness. Gen. Collection of oneshots. Warnings for torture, sexuality. Karl/Diva, canon Karl/Saya. Spoilers for chapter 37.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a collection of Karl-centric oneshots and drabbles I started putting together over at FFN, which represents my personal head canon of Karl's life before and after he went insane. There is explicit Karl/Diva in here as well as canon Karl/Saya (just how he obsessed over her after he went all axe crazy). I originally posted these oneshots separately on FFN, but there's so much of them it's just easier to post as a collection, lol :)

**PROLOGUE**   
****

"Do you know what this is?" Solomon asks. He ties the tourniquet tight around Karl's arm, feeling for the vein. "It's versed," Solomon says. "A powerful somnolytic. It will help you sleep," Solomon says, and Karl nods, wide-eyed and trusting. 

Karl's veins are small and delicate, the type an inexperienced man would easily infiltrate. But Solomon is not inexperienced. He pulls the skin on Karl's arm back and the IV goes in easily, the little bubble of blood welling up at the tip. Silently Solomon screws on the catheter and flushes the line with saline. Behind him, Amshel taps his foot, waiting.

Solomon draws up the medication, silently measuring out more than enough to kill a normal human. Until now, they have not been able to sedate Karl--his chevalier's body had rejected all anesthetics--and it was only recently that Amshel allowed Solomon to titrate the medication. "Is it done?" Amshel says. Solomon frowns, grimly.

"Only a moment, brother," Solomon says, and he looks in Karl's eyes.

His breath slows, and on the gurney Solomon can see the way Karl's thin chest heaves with each breath. His eyelids flutter and he doesn't respond when Solomon pinches his skin. "He's unconscious," Solomon says. He looks up at Amshel, nodding.

"He's out," Solomon says. He takes a step backward, wincing internally as Amshel picks up a metal pipe.

 _Thwack_. Solomon turns his head, the the loud crack of metal and bone reverberating against the operating table. Solomon frowns and turns again, watching as Amshel methodically deals the blows: one strike against his neck and shoulder; another against each arm and leg. "Do you know how people die from being 'beaten to death'?" Amshel asks. The bat swings, and with all of Amshel's force smashes into the side of Karl's face. Solomon takes a sharp breath; blood pours out from Karl's wounds. "Internal hemorrhaging, good doctor. Contusions of the internal organs. Blunt force trauma to all the vital parts."

"I do not see why this is necesary," Solomon says. Amshel grins, then sets down the bat.

"Behold," Amshel says, and slowly the bruises on Karl's skin begin to recede. His skin goes from mottled purple to a greenish hue, before involuting to the pale yellow discoloration from an old bruise. "The power of a chevalier," Amshel said. "This was not part of the experiment. Merely the demonstration."

"Ah," Solomon says. He waits uneasily as Amshel disappears behind the curtain.

"We can survive even the harshest of assaults," Amshel says. He steps forward; he's carrying a vial of blood. "But why is it we cannot survive _this_?"

"Amshel--" Solomon starts, but Amshel grins, setting down the dropper. 

"It isn't Saya's," Amshel says. "Rest assured."

Solomon says nothing. More and more the experiments seem to have little point other than to satiate Amshel's sadistic streak; if Solomon were in charge of the experiments, he would be content to experiment on a sample of tissue or hair. "His heartrate is going up," Solomon says. He glances back at the monitor. "He's in a lot of pain."

"He will not remember," Amshel says. "The _point_ , dear doctor, is to see what exactly would impede our healing. To discover the threats to our existence other than Saya's blood."

"I wasn't aware there were any," Solomon said, but Amshel pulled out the dropper.

"There is more to this than building a good defense," Amshel says. The acid burns; the skin sears, bubbling with each drop. "If we discover what can harm us, we discover what can harm _him_. He is more trouble than she is, you will agree."

"Haji does not attack unless provoked," Solomon says. "Amshel-nii-san, forgive me. But I am afraid these experiments may kill him."

"Then we will have learned something valuable, ne?" Amshel says. 

 

*****

 

Two minutes and 32 seconds. It is the time it takes for Karl's injuries to completely heal. Two minutes and 32 seconds, and with each subsequent injury, two minutes and 32 seconds more elapse.

"Karl," Solomon says, and Karl looks up, crouched in the corner of his cell. A patch of filthy light falls on the concrete floor, and in the grimy darkness Solomon can see the puddles of mud and excrement lining the bottom of the cell. "Are you all right?" 

Karl nods but doesn't say anything. Solomon frowns, then reaches into his pocket. The key feels weighty and cool in his hand.

"Drink," Solomon says, and he offers Karl his arm. 

It's only a moment's hesitation before Karl descends, gripping Solomon's arm and sinking his teeth into the pulse on Solomon's wrist. Solomon winces--unlike with Diva, Karl's feedings are not pleasurable, only a sharp discomfort and the waxing, waning feeling of dizziness as he loses blood. "Karl," Solomon says. He winces again. "Karl...that's enough."

He releases him, and Solomon draws back, rubbing his wrist as the two puncture marks seal and close. "Amshel is going to restrict your feedings," Solomon says. "He wants to know if it impacts your healing abilities."

"Will it?" Karl asks. His voice is soft. Solomon clears his throat, uncomfortably.

"It probably will," Solomon says. Karl closes his eyes. "Please bear with it."

"Thank you," Karl says. He hunches up into himself, chin tucked behind his knees.

Solomon starts to leave, but as his hand grips the iron bar he stops and turns.

"Your family," Solomon says, and Karl looks up again. "My sources say they're doing well."

Karl nods. His eyes are unfocused, staring at the floor.

"Well," Solomon says. He waits a moment before closing the door.

 

*****

_Dust kicked up around his shoes as he walked, and Solomon frowned, shielding his eyes from the sun. Vietnam in the summer was unbearably hot, and in his white suit and leather shoes Solomon was conspicuously out of place. Above him, white sheets of laundry swung on a line and fluttered like banners in the wind, villagers staring at him with narrowed eyes, as barefoot children ran down the dirt roads and through the corrugated shacks around the market._

_"An Oriental," Amshel had said. Solomon looked up; Amshel's eyes were fixed, staring down the throng of villagers who watched him cautiously. "If I had to guess the origin of Diva's race, I would most certainly say she is Mongoloid. Wouldn't you agree?"_

_"Of course," Solomon said._

Of course.

Solomon remembers the first time he met Karl; he was sitting in his study, going over a pile of papers when the cleaning man quietly stepped inside and began emptying trash. Solomon looked up and was thunderstruck.

Beautiful was not the word to describe it: the curve of his back like the stroke of an artist's brush, bending over to sweep the detritus into plastic bags. Dark hair fell over pale skin, and Solomon couldn't help but stare at him, the delicate line of the man's neck and the birdlike cage of his jaw. 

 

*****

 

He doesn't remember Karl's real name.

Light falls in thick slants through the open window, and Solomon watches as Karl marvels at his new passport. He turns it over in his hands, then traces over the embossed letters with the tips of his fingers. Outside, schoolgirls are running. Laughing, the sound of it carrying through the air like bells.

_"You're torturing him," Solomon says. "Amshel. Whatever your motives may be, you cannot continue to treat him this way. He is a chevalier," Solomon says, and Amshel snorts, amused._

_"He is not our real brother," Amshel says. "He agreed to be our subject. Surely you realize how much his family has benefited," Amshel says._

_"It isn't right," Solomon says. "Surely there are other ways to go about doing this--"_

_"What other ways?" Amshel says. "Tell me, Solomon: shall I ask James to take a turn? Or perhaps Nathan, when he's not busy preening himself in front of the mirror?"_

Karl Fei-Ong. A name as good as any other. Solomon watches as Karl gives it one last look, then places it into the desk drawer.


	2. the savage eye

**PART I**

His lips were thin and bloodless, and his chest heaved with the effort to breathe. "Are you in pain, my son?" Amshel asked, and Karl raised his head--barely, just barely, eyes rolling upwards in a paroxysm of forced-consciousness. "Karl?" 

His eyes opened once before closing again, and Amshel watched the cuts on Karl's face begin to knit. He didn't heal at the same rate he normally did: forced starvation and a chamber pumped full of gas did wonders in terms of delaying Karl's healing. Amshel wrote it in his notebook, pleased.

"Karl," Amshel said, and Karl's eyes cracked open. They were puffy and bruised and the whites of his eyes were injected with red. "You have done well. Diva will surely be pleased."

"Diva," Karl rasped, and he closed his eyes.

 

*****

 

The years with Karl have taught Amshel many things: how a lack of blood could triple the feelings of pain, how a severed arm reattached loses some of its strength. He ripped off fingernails and placed on electrodes, transected vessels and infused countless chemicals all in the attempt to see what could augment a chevalier's strength and what would help them heal.

He held these experiments before, of course: the countless mouse models he'd used and the mongrel dogs on which he'd experimented were nothing compared to the specimen in front of him now, a living, breathing, immortal man, whose secrets he could finally begin to understand. Karl wheezed and moaned and squeezed his eyes, but it was a small price to pay to understand how he and his other brothers worked, the way their bodies knit at a molecular level.

Now Karl was etiolated and motionless, the grayish hue of his skin sickening as it lurched toward something nearly human. Amshel frowned, writing neatly in his notebook, when there was a knock at the door.

Diva wanted to see him, the odd little chevalier Amshel politely asked for her to turn. Behind her, Nathan waved with grand gestures while Solomon walked, face pinched, the both of them trying to talk her out of it. "He's a pretty, pretty present and you've been hiding him from me! I want to see him," Diva said, and her face split. "I want to see him _now_."

Disgusted, Amshel turned, irritated by Diva's sudden arrival. Yet again he came to another failed experiment: for all his work and all his inquiry, the Delta project barely left the ground. 

He was picking up his pen, ready to dismiss Karl and patronize Diva at a moment's notice, when he saw it: Karl's heartrate increasing, the tell-tale beats an erratic staccato on the monitor.

"He looks _delightful_ ," Diva said, and Amshel watched, pleased as Karl hesitantly stood by Diva's side. Diva smiled, a rare, devilish sort of smile, before dipping low and whispering against Karl's neck, her tongue running a lazy path up Karl's ear. The bond between a chevalier and his Queen was a nebulous one indeed, and for all of Amshel's experiments, he could not even begin to understand. The deep-seated pangs of loyalty and arousal, a sexual chemistry that went beyond the bounds of any human relationship--it was something he could only observe in himself. 

_Perhaps this is the experiment I should have conducted, before...._

 

*****

 

Karl was Diva's newest plaything, and Amshel watched, at turns transfixed and disgusted, as the whole of their courtship seemed to blossom before him. Years of study taught him nothing if not patience, and patience was what Amshel needed now, as Karl clumsily began to navigate the tenuous relationship between himself and his beautiful Queen.

As Amshel suspected, love was not an easy thing for Karl. Loneliness was a thing that plagued the boy even before he was locked up in Amshel's cell, and it was this solitude that gave Amshel a mordant fascination: Karl stared at Diva when he thought she wasn't looking; his voice stuttered and tripped over his throat when he tried to speak. From the shadows, Amshel watched as Karl stole one of Diva's underthings and crushed it to his face; he could see the shame creep into Karl's expression, even as he secretly balled up the fabric and stuffed it into the pockets of his coat.

It was hopeless and yet frightening in its intensity, Karl's yearning for contact. Darkly, Amshel wondered how Diva would react if she knew the intensity of Karl's devotion, and that night Amshel set about to find the answer.

 

*****

 

It was nighttime in the garden, and Diva walked the garden path as she always did, an idle hand trailing the thicket of roses, its petals falling as she passed. Karl rose, heart in his throat, as Diva stepped close and began to peel back the fabric of Karl's shirt.

Amshel didn't need to see it: how the boy's eyes closed, the telltale signs of his desperation, nor how he trembled at Diva's mouth curling softly against his skin. She drank and thought nothing of touching him there, the hard knot of his arousal pressed beneath her fingers. 

This was not the first time Diva has done this: her chevaliers seemed to exist for her pleasure alone. Amshel watched as Karl shyly turned and leaned forward for a kiss, which Diva generously allowed, opening her mouth and receiving him with a languid warmth. She seemed to think nothing of kissing him, letting her tongue trail against the muscles of his neck while she straddled him, groaning open-mouthed and rocking beneath the bunched up fabric of her skirt. When she came, she thought nothing of suddenly and unexpectedly pulling back, laughing and grinning as Karl fumbled with his now neglected hardness, the shame on his face making him shake, because to her he was nothing but another beautiful doll, someone whom she could use and just as easily smash against the ground.

 

*****

 

Amshel's notebook thickened and grew with these observations. Diva stretched, catlike and disaffected, as her other chevaliers flanked by her sides. They spoke and laughed easily around her, indulging her whims while Karl stood noticeably apart. Moments passed like this, before finally Diva rose.

Amshel could see it: the hitch in Karl's breath, the tense anticipation that Diva was coming to stand next to him. But instead Diva ignored him completely, walking past him and reaching for Solomon's hand. 

And what did he expect? To hold her? Talk with her? To share a bed and make love to her? Slowly Amshel began to record the things that Karl yearned for, watching him with studied eyes.

 

*****

 

"His name is James," Diva said one day, and the other chevaliers raised their eyes when Diva twirled into the room, tugging the newest member at the very center. "He is very pretty and very, very special. He says he'll call me 'Mama," Diva says, and her blue eyes glittered, cold. "And he's prettier than any doll."

Nathan clapped and Solomon shook his hand, but Karl stood before they could say anything. Not that Diva cared. She preened over James' suit, cooing that _this_ was the face of a man she could love.

Amshel watched. Wrote with his pen how Karl moved quickly from the room, jaw tight with an angry and bewildered sadness, the sting of Diva's rejection battering him at all sides. Hours later, he would find Karl balled up at the foot of his bed, a patch of filthy moonlight quivering on the concrete floor.

 

*****

 

The experiments were nearing an end. Karl sat at the foot of the gurney, docile and quiet, as Amshel prepared a syringe. He tied a tourniquet around Karl's arm, pausing before reaching and drawing blood.

"You can keep going," Karl said, after Amshel had finished. He did not meet Amshel's eyes. 

The Delta project rested on these experiments. He knew how long it took bone to knit and skin to heal. But what he didn't know was how much blood a chevalier could lose, if it was possible to recoup the blood loss before dying. Amshel had many pet theories on how to kill chevaliers: decapitation and incineration being among them. But the loss of blood seemed crucial to him--it was a theory he had long wanted to test, were it not for the risk of losing his most precious subject. But the Delta project was nearing its end and more than enough Schiff to work wtih, Amshel no longer needed Karl for those experiments. Karl seemed to know this too, because he held out his arm, without looking at him.

"Do you not wish to see," Karl asked softly, and he lifted his eyes, "what exactly it would take to kill me?"

Amshel lowered his hand. He watched Karl, carefully. "Why?" Amshel asked, and Karl's mouth thinned.

"I am one who was born unwanted...both as a man, and now," Karl said. His eyes slid upwards, meeting his. 

"Perhaps with my death, I can be something useful."

 

****

 

How was it that things ended like this? That Amshel's long life, the multitude of futures, should bow and bend at the sight of another one's ruin? Once he pressed his hand on the pulse of something foreign to himself, the silken webs of a thing that was beyond understanding. Now he felt as if he were a boy plucking off a butterfly's wings, and to him it was what love was like: heartless and mocking, something sad and terribly, inexplicably cruel.

Karl did not die. Not when he slumped over the straps on the gurney, skin pale and clammy and eyes the color of a runny egg. Not when his blood trickled out from a multitude of cuts, countless wounds that would not close. His pulse was a threadbare one and his meager life was strung up by thin fraying cords that threatened to snap, and just as the last drops of Karl's life seemed to ooze and puddle at Amshel's feet, Diva swooped in, terribly displeased.

The strike, when it came, did not surprise him. Amshel pitched to the side and staggered back, raising a hand to the cut on his cheek. 

Somewhere from the folds of her petticoat, Diva had produced a knife; the small blade glinted as she cut the palm of her hand, sniffing with a smug superior look, and then dribbling her blood over Karl's mouth.


	3. two by two

She drags him into the hallway, throws him against the ground and kicks him in the stomach. 

"Please," Karl says. Begs, as if he has the right. "Diva--" 

But she silences him with one well-timed strike, fist whacking hard into Karl's windpipe. Karl reaches out for her, but she pulls her hand away.

"Pathetic," Diva says. "You're _pathetic_." 

And Karl curls up into himself, his erection throbbing shamefully against the hardwood floor.

 

*****

 

In the bedroom, Diva fucks him in the dark. She's brutal, slamming him against the head of the bed and driving him into the mattress. He feels her teeth tear into the tender flesh of his neck, and it hurts. It hurts him but he doesn't want it to stop, doesn't want to miss the ragged, harsh sounds of her panting against him, the warmth of her skin and the wet, desperate sounds of her pistoning herself on him. He feels her nails digging into the skin of his bicep, but already the wounds are beginning to heal.

Somewhere, between the smacks and the bites and the harsh, brutal thrust of her body grinding against his, Diva stops hitting him, and pretty soon she's concentrated on the place where their bodies are connected, just Diva and Karl and the furtive silence of the room. When Diva comes, it's something beautiful, mouth half-open with a hoarse, shuddered cry before she drops her weight onto his chest, exhausted. He's still hard when she pulls herself off him, but he doesn't mind; the fact that Diva chooses him at all is enough. He nudges his head against the space between her neck and shoulder, and he's rewarded when she turns and begins the slow drag of her tongue against his jugular. 

"Ne, Karl," she says, breathes into his neck and the back of his shoulders there. "What are we doing, anyway?"

The question confuses him; he pulls back slightly, searching her eyes.

"Making love," Karl says, and Diva starts to laugh, blue eyes cruel and amused and her laughter rolling out of her like fog.

 

*****

 

This is not the first time she's hurt him. Diva stands at the foot of the bed, her revulsion for him clearly on her face. "I'm bored," Diva says, and she sweeps on her clothes, her dress and shawl with a single flourish. "Perhaps my Solomon will let me feed. I could go for a good drink." She looks at him but Karl says nothing. He does not offer her the gash on his arm, which is fresh and still weeping blood.

In the bathroom, Karl silently stares at his reflection in the mirror; his face is gaunt and his eyes are bruised, and the cut across his chest seems to leave an ugly scar. But it doesn't; it is just a trick of the light, as if his heartache had manifested on his chest, while the pain of his solitude burns at the back of his throat.

"I think you’d better leave," Diva says. And Karl picks up his things and softly closes the door.


	4. say you're mine

They're talking as if she can't hear them, but talk of Karl piques her interest, and Diva raises her head, listening.

"You're torturing him," Solomon is saying. "Amshel. Whatever your motives may be, you cannot continue to treat him this way. He is a chevalier," Solomon says, and Amshel snorts, amused.

"He is not our real brother," Amshel says. "He agreed to be our subject. Surely you realize how much his family has benefited," Amshel says, and Diva bristles, annoyed.

"I want to see him," Diva says, and the two men startle-no doubt they've forgotten she's there.

"Diva. Why are you not in the living room?" Amshel says. Diva ignores him, doing a little pirouette around the room.

"You're talking about the man you bought for me, the one I gave my blood," Diva says. "I was wondering where you've been hiding him! Ne, Solomon," Diva says, turning. "Don't you think it's unfair?"

Solomon seems to hesitate, before answering, "it is," and Diva revels in a sort of triumph.

"He's mine," Diva says, and she gives a pointed look toward Amshel. "And I would like to see him."

She can see it: the look on Amshel's face. Something like fear, and it makes Diva smile. "Thank you, Amshel," Diva coos, stepping forward. "I know you like your experiments; I like mine too. So you won't mind if I see him, will you?" and she lets her finger trail on his chest, innocently skimming the center of his shirt. "He looks like the man Saya-neesama has."

"An Oriental," Amshel says. Diva brightens. She does a half-twirl and grips Solomon by the arm.

"An Oriental," Diva says, because it's the newest shiniest thing in the world.

 

*****

 

When she was little, Diva once asked Amshel where babies come from. "Babies?" Amshel said, and he furrowed his brow, then frowned.

"You have children when a man chooses to love you. That's where babies come from," Amshel said, but Diva pressed further, asking, "Where do I find someone like that?" to which Amshel frowned and shook his head, and said someone as pretty as her should not concern herself with those thoughts now.

Funny. Lately it's all Diva can think about. Babies mean family and family means people who love you and want to protect you. Sometimes she thinks her chevaliers are family, but they're not, not really. Not when they obsess about Saya-neesama, because Amshel is convinced they can only have babies with her.

But Diva has lots of things, pretty things she can play with. She has her singing and her books and her precious porcelain dolls, which she dresses up in the prettiest dresses to help keep her mind off stupid, unimportant things, like the hollow, empty feeling she gets sometimes, like that one time she saw that family strolling down the river. Who could blame her for tearing them from limb to limb? They were an affront to her senses, and besides, she felt like feeding on something else. (Her chevaliers all started to taste the same. It annoyed her and she was sick of it.)

Now Diva walks down the corridor, footsteps echoing as Solomon descends down the narrow staircase, the orange light from his lantern bouncing on the dark brick walls. She had wondered about Karl, the newest one in her group, but strangely the others had avoided the topic: she had wondered if maybe he were some disgusting thing, someone who inspired revulsion in those who were within his very proximity.

It made sense: the others did not go near him, and the few times she did see him, he always seemed inexorably, incredibly lonely. Once, she saw a bird with a broken wing; it had flapped uselessly on the ground, chirping pathetically with blood in its pretty feathers. Diva had felt sorry for it, briefly, before stepping on it with her foot. Karl reminds her of that time; she can't decide if she wants to protect him or crush him with her boot.

"Only a moment longer," Amshel says, and Diva feels him press a hand to her shoulder, a protective, paternal gesture. "He is not much to look at," Amshel says. "But to satisfy your curiosity, I will permit it."

"You'd better," Diva says. Solomon unlocks the door.

 

*****

 

In the cell, Karl is hunched on the wooden bench. There are cuts and bruises that are just now starting to heal--"We must understand our weaknesses,"Amshel had said before injecting Karl with a substance that delayed his healing-and Diva frowns slightly, watching as Amshel steps in front of her.

He doesn't want her in here. Diva bristles at the injustice of it-Karl is her chevalier, not Amshel's. And certainly not Solomon's, who watches the whole thing with a worrisome interest. Diva straightens her collar before stepping inside, delicately avoiding the puddle of water draining on the concrete floor.

Karl looks up. A filthy square of light falls on his face as he does. "Solomon?"

Before Solomon can answer, Diva sweeps forward, excited. He's beautiful. Not like Amshel, whose fat face fills an entire room, and certainly not like James, who has the physical appeal of a potted plant. No,this chevalier is different. She can guess why Amshel wanted to keep him hidden from her.

"Why is he hidden here?" Diva says. Amshel straightens and Solomon doesn't look her in the eye. "Well?"

"As I already explained, Diva. He volunteered," Amshel says. Diva sniffs, annoyed.

"He's too pretty to keep in here," Diva says. "Take him down."

Amshel startles. "But Diva-"

"I want him," Diva says. "Or shall I remind you how father kept me locked up, as well?"

Amshel says nothing. He glances at Solomon, then pulls the keys from his pocket.

Diva's eyes narrow. A shadow passes over her face as Amshel walks past, kneeling forward and unlocking the shackles around Karl's legs.

The first thing Diva notices, besides how pretty Karl looks, is his pretty face. His cheekbones are high and delicate, and his skin is pale, the color of porcelain. Narrow-chested and thin, he looks fragile and easy to break: what she wants more than anything is to crack open the birdlike cage of his jaw.

 

*****

 

As it turns out, Karl is just as boring as the others.

Diva sits at the corner of the room, watching suspiciously as her newest chevalier lies on top of her comforter. It's her favorite one, burgandy-colored like day-old blood and stuffed with the softest down feathers, the duvet Egyptian cotton and cool against her skin. But now he's lying there like a lump on a log and he's soiling her pretty, pretty bedsheets with the sweat on his back, and Diva feels like gouging his eyes, except that his eyes are so pretty, she doesn't want to touch them.

Karl wheezes and his eyelids flutter, and Diva bends forward, mesmerized. Up close, his skin really is like porcelain, so creamy and unblemished she wants to dig her nails in and twist.

Amshel really knows how to pick them. Slowly she begins to pluck off the buttons of Karl's shirt, which is grimy and blood-stained and soiled with sweat, before bending forward to give his chest one long, luxurious lick upwards, starting from the base of his navel all the way up to the hollow of his neck. She traces the slight ridges of his muscles with her tongue, enjoying the muted salty taste of his skin before pausing to flick across one perfect nipple.

Karl groans, and his pretty eyes flutter open. Diva grins, smiling into his skin. "Hello," Diva says, and she feels him seize up, wide-eyed in terror. His heart is thrumming like hummingbirds under her palm.

"You remember me," Diva says. He tries to move but she's got him pinned down on the bed, her weight resting squarely on his hips. His muscles tighten and she giggles, delighted. It's too perfect, really. "Did I hurt you too badly, that first time?"

"Please," Karl says. His voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Please what?" Diva says, and she dips down, gently lapping the sweat off his neck. He smells like fear and fresh blood, and it's a potent combination: she pours herself onto his lap, wet and eager, grinding against his thigh. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Karl says. His eyes close. "You are our mother and our lover. Our creator and our bride."

"Good," Diva says. "So Amshel did teach you something after all."

He's shaking. Slowly, Diva drags the tips of her fingers down the skin of his chest, the edges of her nails delicately scraping his skin.

"Ne, Karl," Diva says. She breathes into his neck, breath just barely ghosting his skin. "You'll play with me, right?"

Karl groans, a half response.

Diva slaps him. Karl pitches sideways, reeling from the blow.

Diva laughs, delighted. The cut on Karl's cheek starts to heal.

 

******

 

Later, she slams him backward against the table, his head making a brutal thwack against the desk, painful enough for him to see stars. Diva laughs and straddles him hard, hands digging into his shoulders and pushing herself on his length.

"Karl," Diva says, and she rocks forward, as if a piston on his hips. "You like the way this feels, don't you?"

She can see the pulse in his neck, the bright beads of sweat rolling on his chest, and she dips down and gives him one luxurious lick before baring her teeth and biting, fangs sinking into his flesh. Karl winces; blood bubbles up into her mouth.

What is it he inspires in her? She doesn't know. It's something like possession, something stronger than all her instincts combined.

She drinks. She drains him greedily, feels the muscles of his arms straining against her.

 

*******

 

Afterwards, he doesn't sleep, but Diva knows he likes to lie next to her, letting her cradle him to her breast the way she would any of her favorite things. He breathes and she feels his arm press up against her waist, and Diva can't help but feel...well, something. It's a different sort of feeling, not like the way Solomon grips her, irritating and possessive, so much so she has to kick him out from her bed. And it's not like James, who clings to her like an overbearing child.

"It's lonely sometimes, you know?" Diva says, and Karl watches her, dark eyes probing silently. "My sweet Solomon doesn't know me; Amshel treats me like a lab rat and James doesn't understand. Even Nathan," Diva says, and her voice quavers. "Nathan says I'm special, that I'm not like anyone else. But sometimes he asks about Saya, as if Saya-neesama were someone special, too."

Karl is quiet, and Diva knows: knows it in her bones, because deep down they're both lonely, and deep down they're both the same. "You're special," Karl says, softly, and Diva feels tears prick her eyes.

For the first time in her long life (and Diva's lived a long time, longer than she cares to remember), Diva lets someone make love to her. It's a scary thing, and she trusts him completely, when she bares her heart to him and lets him take her in his arms.

 

******

 

He's an Oriental. Diva rolls the word in her mind like a piece of sugar candy under her tongue. It's exotic and strange and she wonders if he'll be able to give her what she wants. The others couldn't give her babies, no sweet children from Solomon or Amshel or James, no matter how hard they tried.

And wasn't it true that Amshel forced her the first few times, when she was locked up by Joel and chained in the room? But now Amshel won't touch her, and she wonders if it's because she's broken, a barren, loveless thing that can't bring life into the world. She wonders briefly if Saya-neesama is the same...

Nee-sama. Diva stops. The leaves to her roses move in the breeze. Funny how her own flesh and blood hates her, so. Diva plucks the rose in her hand, frowning. Didn't she understand? Didn't she care at all?

"Ne, Amshel?" Diva says, and she spins and turns, pulling up the hem of her skirts and smiling, innocently. "Is this what love feels like?"

"Perhaps," Amshel says, though Diva knows he thinks she is incapable of love. 

 

*****

 

When she bleeds, she can't stop crying, and soon her grief turns into a murderous rage: it takes all four of her chevaliers to hold her back, Amshel grabbing her by the arms and her darling Nathan pinning her down.

 

*****

 

"You wish I were Saya-neesama, don't you?" Diva says.

Karl doesn't answer; Diva glares and grabs a fistful of hair, yanking his head upright. "Look at me when I talk to you," Diva says.

But Karl doesn't answer: days of torture has made him weak, and besides, he's never met Saya-neesama a day in his life. "Why?" Diva says. She falls to her knees, her hair in her eyes. "Why does everyone love her, and not me? Why does everyone hate me?"

"Diva," Karl says, and he makes a move to touch her. But Diva is quick, and Diva is a queen: she tears out his arm from its socket, ripping the flesh from his bones and laughing as she watches it begin to heal.

 

*****

 

_"Amshel?" Diva says, when she was still very young. "Where do babies come from?"_

_And Amshel answered brusquely, "When a man chooses to love you. That's where babies come from."_

No one chooses to love her.

Diva doesn't understand.

 

******

 

She will hurt him. She will smash his bones to pieces like so much porcelain, will rip his heart and stomp on it like he has stomped on hers.

They don't experiment on him anymore. Even so, he's still not like the others. Not really. Not when he's fallen from such great heights, the companion to their queen to the pathetic bug that he is, now.

"Diva!" It's Nathan who bursts in this time, vaulting forward and yanking Diva off Karl's prostrate body. She's smashed him to bits and bones and the center of his face has caved in, and even though he's a chevalier there's too much damage to keep him from healing. "He'll die," Nathan says, and his face is pale. "Diva, you must feed him. Otherwise he'll die."

"Why should I?" Diva says, and her eyes well up with tears.

Nathan doesn't say anything. Wordlessly, he takes Diva's hand into his, closing his fingers around her wrist before cutting her flesh with a knife.

Blood drips, trickles down the side of Karl's lips as his skin slowly starts to knit, then slowly begins to heal.


	5. namesake

**Part II**

He doesn't remember his real name. 

Karl Fei Ong. Karl the Flying Man. Schoolgirls giggle and point when they find out their headmaster's name, the ridiculous confluence of adjectives that obscured his true self.

He does remember how he started going by "Karl," however: sitting in the middle of a crowded cafe, he sat across from Solomon and turned his cup in his hands nervously, politely listening as Solomon rolled the consonants of his real name like marbles under his tongue.

"Karl," Karl said, and Solomon looked up. "You may call me Karl."

"Ah," Solomon said, and he smiled. "You will forgive me, Karl. Though I have been here for many years, it seems the subtleties of the language still evade me."

Solomon reached for the cup - Karl watched, silently admiring the curve of Solomon's fingers and the elegant, effortless way he held it - and took a drink. 

"You are not French?" Karl asked. His French, unlike Solomon's Vietnamese, was perfect.

"No. In point of fact, I am English. But that is not the reason why I've asked you here." 

He leaned forward. Karl watched, quietly, as Solomon slowly pulled out a leather journal, setting it in front of him, pointedly. "My colleagues are in search of an Oriental," Solomon said, and he slowly turned the pages of the book, hand tracing the writing there. "Someone of particular merit. Cultured, able to speak more than his mother tongue. Someone like yourself," Solomon said. Karl watched him, intensely.

"I saw how you looked at my study," Solomon said, and Karl startled. Solomon smiled kindly. "A cleaning man such as yourself, perusing my medical textbooks. I will say it was quite the sight."

"Forgive me," Karl said, but Solomon shook his head.

"I shall tell Amshel of our meeting," Solomon said. He stood and offered his hand. "I have no doubt he would be most pleased to meet you."

 

*****

 

The medical library Solomon referred to, it was one of the places Karl was employed to clean by one of the European colonizers; Indochina was known for its tobacco and rice but not so much for the studiousness of its villagers, who were expected to stay in their place and farm the land. Karl walked, clad in western clothes with books in his arm, as his countrymen stooped low and waded up to their ankles in water, transplanting rice grain by grain. 

But not Karl. Even during his boyhood days, he watched with utmost fascination the Europeans in the center of town. While others his age were groomed to tend the rice paddies and cultivate the land, Karl secretly began learning the languages of the Europeans colonizing them: French, English, German, until he was as fluent in French as he was his native tongue.

"We do not school the natives," the bishop said, as Karl stood in the rain with his application in hand, handwritten in perfect French. "Learn the commandments; follow the sacraments, and you will be on the path toward salvation. Leave the higher learning to those who would use it," the bishop said. He started to close the door, but Karl caught it in his hand.

"May I work here, then?" Karl asked. He looked up. Rain streamed down his face, wet strands of hair sticking to his skin. "Bishop?"

The bishop paused, then frowned. 

"I shall think about it," the Bishop said, and he closed the door.

 

*****

 

The medical library. The one he was instructed to dust and clean, to empty the waste baskets and clean up after the students who came earlier. Karl wandered from shelf to shelf, quietly setting down his broom and pulling down a book into his hands. 

Anatomy. Physiology. Medical pharmacology. Slowly Karl sat down, flipping quietly through the pages. "You can read," someone said, and Karl stood, startled.

It was the first time he met Solomon Goldsmith, who stood backlit against the bright light of the library windows. "Yes," Karl said, after he caught his bearings. "Forgive me. I shall be leaving, soon."

"No, no," Solomon said, and he stepped forward. Slowly he picked up the book, then leafed through the pages. "This is in English," Solomon said. He showed Karl the page.

"Yes," Karl said. Solomon raised his eyebrows.

"Then you can understand?"

"Yes," Karl said. "But it is easier to read in French."

"I see," Solomon said. He paused a moment, then looked up at him.

"Perhaps you can explain to me what you just read," Solomon said.

 

*****

 

The fire blazed, bright orange flames licking the dark sky as villagers ran frantically toward it, buckets of water splashing uselessly as the huts and fields collapsed onto itself. Sparks of orange burst outward, and Karl watched helplessly as his family sank onto their knees, wailing as the terraces of rice burned.

 

******

 

"How much?" Karl asked, in broken German. Amshel sniffed and Solomon shook his head, frowning. "How much?" Karl said again, and Solomon touched his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Solomon asked. He spoke in French in a low, soft voice, low enough so that Amshel couldn't hear. "Karl?"

"Yes," Karl said. He glanced back at Amshel, then at Solomon, who nodded solemnly. 

"Then we shall take you to her. Our mother and our Queen. Diva."


	6. a punishment

A strike.

Karl pitched to the side; blood trickled down the corner of his mouth.

"Again," Diva said. 

Another strike. Karl coughed and spat up blood.

 

*****

 

"Diva," Solomon said. He followed after her down the steps, hand gripping the rail. "Diva. It is inhumane."

"I don't care," Diva said. She turned, the skirt of her dress swirling with the movement. "I want you to hurt him, Solomon. I want you to hurt him as he's hurt me."

" _Diva_."

Diva's mouth twisted into a smile.

"But no one can really hurt me, can they?" Diva said. She turned again, hand prettily resting on the banister. "I am your maker and your Queen. It amuses me," Diva said, and she took another step down. "Amshel already agreed."

"But--"

Diva raised her hand, then disappeared down the stairwell.

 

******

 

The experiments continued. Before, they had always told Karl what they were doing and how it would be done: they would sedate him, do what was needed, then gradually wake him up when he was all healed. Afterward, they would allow him to return to his quarters, to read or study or sit with the other chevaliers, who regarded him from a distance, but who allowed him to sit within their presence without much fuss.

But now, after the fallout from Diva's affair, Karl was kept locked in a cell no bigger than Diva's old prison, the experiments conducted at all hours of the day without the benefit of sedation. "She wants him to be awake," Amshel said. "Quite frankly, I'm pleased with this development. I was always afraid your cocktails would interfere with our data."

Silently, Solomon went to Karl's old room. The curtains were closed, but somehow a crack of light filtered from the bottoms of the curtain. He could see the vanity and the mirror, a stack of books neatly sitting on the nightstand. 

Solomon closed the door. Stepping inside, he cast a quick glance at the bed at the center of the room, and frowned. Somehow that bed seemed obscene. Chevaliers did not sleep, and Solomon knew, both from Amshel's logs and from his own personal experience, the purpose for which the bed was truly used.

The stairs to the prison cell were long and narrow, and as Solomon stepped he had to catch himself, the slant of the steps pitching at a downward angle so much so that he felt like he would lose his balance. The books in his hand made it so he couldn't hold onto the railings, so Solomon walked slowly, taking care not to miss a step as he went downstairs.

 

*****

 

"Two minutes and 32 seconds. That's the time it takes for you to fully heal."

Solomon could see the iron shackles around Karl's ankle; it was so tight it rubbed the skin of his leg raw. "A shame," Solomon said. "If it weren't for the constant pressure of this cuff, you would heal almost instantly."

Karl's gaze seemed unfocused, not once glancing at the stack of books Solomon had gathered from his room. 

"I brought you your books," Solomon said. Karl said nothing. Quietly Solomon squatted beside him, pushing the stack of books closer. "We have all suffered the wrath of Diva's disfavor at one time or another," Solomon said. "Please bear with it for now."

 

******

 

Two minutes and 32 seconds. That was the time it took for Karl to fully heal. Amshel worked diligently to inflict the injuries before that time period. One slice of the scalpel, blood trickling down the wall of Karl's chest as he peeled the skin back. Two minutes and 32 seconds. Fingers bluntly tearing into muscle and tendons from the cage of Karl's ribs, fingers turned to sharpened talons to hack and tear through Karl's heart.

Two minutes and 32 seconds. The time it takes before Karl starts to scream.

 

*****

 

"Drink," Solomon said. He offered up Karl his wrist, cutting the artery there. "Karl you must drink. Please."

"She hates me."

"Karl." Solomon stared. "Diva is our maker," Solomon said. "She is our goddess Queen. It is not our right to love her," Solomon said, but Karl turned, facing the wall. The chains rattled with the movement, scraping against the concrete. Solomon's face was drawn. " _Karl._ "

"If only," Karl said. His eyes were dim. "If only I could have given her a child."

"Neither of us could," Solomon said. "Karl. Amshel thought because you were Oriental, maybe it would work. It got Diva's hopes up. She's disappointed and she's angry, but it certainly is not your fault."

"You've made love to her?" Karl asked. He turned slowly. Solomon sucked in his breath. His skin was covered with filthy, stringy pieces of hair falling over his eyes. "Solomon?"

Solomon's jaw tightened, but didn't answer. 

 

*****

Outside, Solomon stepped out from the cell to find Amshel standing under the torchlight. "Amshel-nii-san?"

"Diva wishes to see him," Amshel said. Solomon's eyes widened.

"Diva?"

"It seems his punishment is over," Amshel said. He looked around the dungeons with distaste, "at least this part of it, it seems."

He unlocked the door. Solomon watched as Karl stood, the tattered blanket falling from his arms.

 

*****

 

"It seems our sweet Diva can't get enough of him," Nathan said. He stretched luxuriously in the garden, swirling a wine glass in his hand. "Such a beautiful boy. He truly is a living doll."

"What does she do to him?" Solomon asked. Reflexively his mind went back to the first day they met, Karl going over medical texts and begging for him to teach him. Nathan laughed.

" _Sex_ , darling. Lots of dirty, awful sex. I imagine the poor boy is being abused at this very moment." Nathan took another drink, then paused to delicately wipe the corner of his mouth. "He's besotted with her, the poor thing. I tried to explain to him, 'Karl dear, she doesn't love you.' But the poor thing is confused," Nathan said. "I don't blame him. No family, no home to go back to. Oh! It would make a grown man _weep_."

"It was my fault," Solomon said. Nathan looked up, then leaned forward. "He only wanted to learn. I told him I would teach him."

"And you have taught him," Nathan said. "All the ways of this wicked world."


	7. rise

There is a haze over the moon, and the night is as thick and dark as a funeral shroud covering them both. Everything is quiet except for her pleasured, shallow breathing and the slick, wet sounds of his fingers and tongue. Diva sighs and the muscles of her belly rise and tense, and Karl is rewarded by the feel of her hands cupping the back of his head; another jerk. He carefully licks the inside of her wet slit, mouth and nose pressed up against her. The scent is dense and she tastes muted and bitter, and when she arches up against his mouth, he moves upward to suckle at the pearly button of flesh at her apex, nose bumping against her mound. It's sloppy, his ministrations: her wetness smears obscenely against his face and chin. 

Except for the pale streak of moonlight filtering through the curtains, it's completely dark inside. Dark and quiet, except for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the wet, smacking sounds of his tongue against her sex. She's sitting on the couch this time, legs spread as Karl sits in front of her on his knees. The position allows Karl to work on her directly, his cheek brushing the soft flesh of her inner thigh. 

No one else touches her like this: Diva herself has told him this much. None of the others would worship her like this, falling to their knees and raising their face up to her like a supplicant, a communion of touch promising to wash away their manifold sins.

She's swollen and wet when he eases his fingers inside her.

From her breathing, he knows she's close. From the way she tenses her muscles, he knows only a few harsh sucks against her would finish her for the night, after which he would leave and privately touch himself afterward. It is a ritual that has largely gone unchanged since they started this, so when Diva grips him by the arms and pulls him upright, Karl startles, surprised.

The room is cold, but her skin burns him. Bright beads of sweat roll off her neck and temples and Karl lets his tongue swipe up against her skin, a momentary weakness. He never would have taken such liberties before, but for some reason Diva doesn't move to stop him. Karl shifts position and flows up to press a reverent kiss against her belly, then another at the crest of her ribs. Diva sighs and Karl takes that as permission to climb higher, leaning his head into her chest before shyly nuzzling the tip of her breast with his chin. 

The couch sinks in the middle with their weight, and Karl grows bolder, moving to lightly circle her nipple with his tongue.

Diva doesn't make a sound, aside from her heavy breathing. He moves to cover her body with his own, but the couch is too narrow and it groans in protest, and Karl's bare feet slide against the damp wood. 

He's so hard now it hurts, and now he's sliding tortuously against her belly. The movement realigns their bodies, and suddenly Karl's tip grazes her wetness. The sensation tortures him. He groans, face red and panting against her shoulder, his erection weeping and trapped between their bodies, the ridge of her pelvis grinding against him. 

"Diva..."

Diva sighs again and his heart stills. He moves upward, nudging her face and pressing a kiss against her eyes, and it's as if all the love in the world is overflowing. Open-mouthed kisses against her shoulder, her breast, the hollow of her neck. Eyes squeezed shut even as he clutches at her, arms sliding up around her back and desperately holding her.

Suddenly, irrationally, he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to finish himself in some lonely spot, doesn't want her to come without him.

Before he can stop himself, he moves his hand between their bodies and eases himself inside her, sliding inside with one, smooth stroke. She doesn't move like he expects her too; rather she groans, legs clenching against his waist and ribs as if she likes it.

It doesn't take long. A few hard thrusts and he comes, falling against her breast. She comes soon after him, jerking and spasming wet and hard around him.

Silence. He can hear her heavy breathing, the sound of his heartbeat slowing steadily in his ears. He moves and nuzzles his face against her breast, still inside her and knowing full well she has killed others for less, but feeling too happy and exhausted to care.

Then he's alone. She moves and gathers up her clothes, then strides out of the bedroom, shutting the door as if nothing had happened. 

Slowly, Karl moves, quietly stooping low to pick up his clothes.


	8. in arms

**Part III**

It was Karl's turn tonight, and Solomon watched, stomach-sick and worried as Diva roughly yanked back the collar of Karl's shirt, blood-hunger like lust coursing through her. His brother trembled; impatiently, Diva tore at his clothes, shoving him hard against the bed, not caring that the others were watching, James and Amshel and Nathan politely averting their eyes as their Queen began to feed.

"Diva." Karl gasped and Solomon couldn't look at him, couldn't watch the way he gasped her name like a prayer. "Diva."

In the murky half-dark, Diva looked young, almost child-like, gently suckling on his jugular as slowly, she rocked, pushing Karl down and lapping at the skin of his neck, the beads of blood slowly drying as the two puncture wounds began to heal. Solomon could feel Karl's devotion for her pulsing out from him like blood, but Diva stood, pushing herself upright and throwing her cloak over her shoulders.

"I don't like your blood," Diva said. Karl gripped the bedsheets, shaking. "You taste boring."

And Diva laughed. It was low and mirthless, the sound stretching over the whole of the room.

 

*****

 

When they created him, it had always been this way.

Solomon knew. Even as the others feigned ignorance and Amshel protested otherwise, Solomon knew Karl was never one of them; not really. From the corner of his eye, he could see how Karl watched them from a distance, sitting two tables over as the other chevaliers dined and laughed quietly amongst themselves, feeding Diva grapes and baring their necks to let her feed. 

Solomon frowned. It was decadent, orgy-like, these men fawning over their goddess, but Diva was bored and rose, one slender hand tugging the lapel of James' shirt. 

"Come," Diva said, and the room fell quiet. "Entertain me." The other men averted their eyes and Amshel delicately cleared his throat. James stood, tight-lipped and proper, as Diva smiled and swayed and lead him to her bedroom.

The door closed with a soft click. Moments later, Solomon could hear Diva moaning, could picture her mouth falling open in a succulent 'o'.

"Insatiable," Amshel said, and Nathan laughed, stretching luxuriously and shaking his head. "Diva just fed an hour ago."

"I take it she wasn't satisfied," Nathan said. He looked directly at Karl. "Perhaps our other brother will be what she's craving."

He could see the muscles of Karl's shoulders stiffen, and as the others smirked amongst themselves, obviously Karl couldn't satisfy her, the youngest one, who just moments earlier had been slammed up against the mattress and taken without so much as a preamble: Solomon could almost see how humiliation rose and burned at the back of Karl's throat, the sound of Diva's moans rising like waves.

"Do not take offense," Solomon said, quietly. He touched Karl's shoulder. "Diva has her moods. Just as one cannot feast on the same type of food, Diva cannot drink just one type of blood. Rest well, my friend," Solomon said. "Be proud that she chose you at all."

But Karl did not look at him. He yanked his shoulder back, as if Solomon's touch was a heated stone.

 

*****

 

He was always a gentle boy. That's what Solomon would tell the others. Even after Karl's sanity slipped and the madness crept over his eyes, Solomon would remind them that Karl had been different from them, soft and unsure of his place in the world.

_The experiments were nearing an end. Karl sat at the foot of the gurney, docile and quiet, as Amshel prepared a syringe. He tied a tourniquet around Karl's arm, pausing before reaching and drawing blood._

_"You can keep going," Karl said, after Amshel had finished. He did not meet Amshel's eyes._

_There were few ways to kill a chevalier, other than their rival Queen's blood: decapitation; incineration. The irreparable loss of blood._

_If Solomon were there, he would have stopped it. Would have stopped Amshel-nii-san from taking Karl's offer, would have taken his little brother and pulled him in his arms._

_"Do you not wish to see," Karl asked softly, and he lifted his eyes, "what exactly it would take to kill me?"_

Solomon was not there. 

 

*****

 

"She gave him more of her blood," Amshel said. Solomon opened his eyes as Amshel and James stood over him, shadows falling on the pile of papers still strewn on his desk. "He would have died, Solomon. A chevalier," and there was a touch of awe in Amshel's voice, as if quietly admiring the fruits of his labors, the deadly experiment that would have killed Karl if Diva had not intervened. "He would not have survived if Diva did not let him feed. He was reborn," Amshel said, and Nathan laughed, shaking his head at the injustice of it all. 

Solomon found him crouching against the wall of the cell, arms shackled and covered with filth. His hair hung in stringy pieces over his face, and as Solomon stepped closer, he could see the change in Karl's eyes.

 

*****

 

Madness was like this: the darting of the eyes, the twitchy, maniacal way of moving, like a man whose bones were made of brittle crystal.

"Now I understand," Karl said, and Solomon didn't like the way he started to speak, with long-drawn syllables and a throaty acceptance of who he finally was. "Love and hate are the same, aren't they, brother? Just as my sweet Diva hated me..."

That night, Solomon found him sitting at the bank of the river, cradling a young girl against his chest. Her hair was dark like Saya's was; her small face fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. It was only when Solomon stepped closer that he saw the two deep puncture wounds at the side of the girl's neck, the blue rose tucked carefully at the pocket of the girl's breast. 

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Karl stroked the dead girl's cheeks, smoothing her shirt front and stroking her hair. "She's beautiful as my Saya is beautiful. More beautiful than death," he said, and Solomon yanked him upright.

"Idiot. What if someone caught you?" Solomon said, but Karl laughed, slow and deep and rolling out of him like fog. 

"He's broken," James said, and they watched in awe as Karl moved obscenely with the bodies of his freshest kills. "Diva's blood has made him mad. I barely recognize him anymore."

"Neither do I," Solomon said. His eyes narrowed as Karl fed luxuriously on the girl, draining her completely and leaving her corpse to fall like a rotted husk.

And then something inside him would twist: Solomon could see it, the edges of pain crowding at the corners of his eyes.

"Is it not what we do, brother?" Karl asked, and he laughed again, a stilted, terrible, broken sound.


	9. scholarly pursuits

He saw her again. The woman with the blue umbrella, walking silently through the village market. Karl stepped behind the sugar cane stalls and watched as she passed. The first time he had seen her, he thought she was a colonial from the way she was dressed, but as she approached he could see quite clearly that she was Oriental. Perhaps even Vietnamese, like him.

She turned, and Karl stopped. Cold blue eyes met his his, and her lips turned upward into a smile. 

 

******

"Experiment?" Solomon said. 

Karl waited, sitting politely in the drawing room while Solomon and his colleague argued. They spoke rapidly in German, and Karl listened intently, only able to understand a few fragments here and there. "We cannot," Solomon said. "He is a scholar. Someone to take under our wing."

"All the more that we should recruit him," Amshel said. Karl raised his eyes. _Recruitment._ Often he had heard stories of people like himself, whisked away from village life to study abroad in France. The argument turned heated again, and quietly Karl stood. Outside, students were entering the building, chatting amicably in French and hoisting their books over their shoulders. 

Karl turned and left, quietly shutting the door.

 

*****

 

There was a thick wedge of sunlight coming through the study window, which was unusual for this time of day. Earlier it had been raining, but now the light streamed in with watery streaks, catching the edge of the bookshelves and the tables across the room.

Karl moved and set the books carefully back on the shelf, keeping sure to arrange them as he had found them. Soon the real students would come and Karl would need to find another place to read, but he didn't mind. Solomon had been allowing him to study for almost a month, but in truth it had felt much longer: everything that had been denied him, physics, Latin, the study of anatomy and medical physiology, opened up to him in a way he didn't think was possible. He was learning at a rapid pace, and it was in no small part due to Solomon's influence.

His family had been suspicious. _"Why?" his father said. Karl knelt on his knees and kept his head bowed respectfully, avoiding his eyes. "Your mother and brother work the fields and yet you are traipsing around with foreigners. It is shameful!"_

_"I wish to better myself." Karl kept his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. "The world is bigger than what is here, Father. There is life outside of this place."_

_"Only foreigners who wish to castrate us and force us on our knees."_

_Karl did not argue._

Solomon's personal study. He allowed Karl to sit and read in there sometimes, after Karl was finished cleaning and tending to his duties. He brought a book under his arm, _The Physiology of Human Reproduction_ , which he carefully set on the bureau. 

There was a photograph on the wall: _Solomon Goldsmith, 1910_ , a picture of Solomon and what could only be surmised as his colleagues, smiling and standing outside the university steps. A coterie of learned men. Karl stopped to admire the photograph for a moment, when something caught his eye.

The corner of a paper, sticking out from the drawer on Solomon's desk. Karl frowned and opened the drawer, intending to straighten out its contents. He picked up the papers and re-shuffled them on the desk, but just as he was about to put them away a photograph fell onto the floor.

Karl stopped. The photograph was faded and aged, and Karl stooped over to pick it up. It was a picture of Solomon. He turned the photograph around.

_Solomon Goldsmith. 1880._

Solomon looked exactly the same.

Karl frowned. He turned the photograph over. The man certainly looked like Solomon, but perhaps Solomon just aged gracefully. Somehow Karl had assumed Solomon was only a few years older than he was, but then, weren't there people in his village that aged without showing the years on their face? Karl slowly sat behind on the desk, going through the papers.

A newspaper clipping. _Solomon Goldsmith_. A graduation announcement marked for 1870.

Another photograph. _Solomon Goldsmith_ and what looked like his partner, Amshel. The handwriting on the back, _1839_.

"It is amazing, isn't it," someone said in German, and Karl turned. Amshel was standing at the doorway.

"Forgive me," Karl said. He pushed the drawer shut. "Solomon said I could use his study. I will leave, if you wish."

"Your German is terrible," Amshel said. He stepped inside, shutting the door. "However, that is to be expected: very few people speak German here outside of this place. A pity I do not speak French."

"Ah," Karl said. Amshel peered over his shoulder, frowning.

"You saw Solomon's photographs?"

"I--yes. I was admiring them. There is a strong family resemblance," Karl said.

"Resemblance?"

"Between himself and his father. His grandfather." Karl tried to ignore that uneasy feeling in his stomach, and focused on his words. German was hard and the words stuck in his mouth like dry bread. Amshel's mouth stretched into a slow smile.

"Those are not his relations. They are pictures of him," Amshel said. He stepped forward, then picked out the photograph marked _1839_. "This is a picture of us."

Karl blinked. "I'm sorry," Karl said. "My German is not very good. It sounded like you said this was a picture of you two."

Amshel turned. 

"Do you know what a _bluatsauger_ is?" Amshel asked. He stood by the window, frowning. "A vampire," Amshel said. "In Bavaria, my homeland, we believed those who lived an immoral life or those who died by suicide became such beings. Living forever in the shadows, living off the blood of human beings."

Outside the window, the clouds parted, and sunlight streamed in at odd angles, backlighting Amshel's body and making Karl squint his eyes. 

"It is amazing how much German you know," Amshel said, finally. He turned again, looking out the window.

"Why do you speak of vampires?" Karl asked. Amshel kept his hands behind his back, looking out into the landscape. 

"It is an interesting subject to me. But what I find more interesting is how you can speak so many languages so fluently, and with so little exposure."

"I hear French all the time," Karl said. He looked at the table and at the papers scattered there. "I heard somewhere that the best universities are German. So I taught myself, ever since I was small."

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful." Amshel turned again, smiling. "There are those who have an affinity for language. Two, three, _seven_ languages, speaking it as they speak their mother tongue. I have found that those polyglots tend to come from countries such as yours," Amshel said. "I have seen it with my own eyes. Old and frail village men, stooping by their huts, switching from dialect to dialect as simply as they breathed. It is a common necessity in these backward places, I am sure."

Karl waited uneasily as Amshel looked out the window, letting the words sink in slowly. "You understand what I am saying, do you not?" Amshel said. 

"Yes," Karl said. "You are saying, people like myself--" and Karl paused, trying to find the words. "People like myself have an aptitude for language."

"Wonderful," Amshel said again, and Karl's jaw tightened. "The natives here have no choice in the matter. Communication. The Indochinese is ripe with other languages. It teems with them, you see. Cantonese, Mandarin. Tamil. All these languages. And of course, your mother tongue."

Amshel's eyes grew unfocused, as if he weren't looking at him so much as looking through him, and Karl shifted his weight, uneasily. "There are certain races who are suited for certain kinds of things," Amshel said. "As our race is meant to rule, your race may be meant to learn. To study language, but also... _other_ things as well."

Amshel's eyes glittered. Karl shifted, uncomfortably.

"I should be going," Karl said. He picked up his book and bowed. "Forgive me for the disturbance."

"Karl," Amshel said.

Karl turned. Amshel smiled slowly, then pulled out a knife.

This is wrong, Karl thought. His heart thundered. This is wrong and I should not be here.

"You were wondering why I spoke of vampires," Amshel said, and he flicked open the blade. "Perhaps I should show you."

The blade flashed. Karl's eyes widened. Before he could say anything, Amshel cut into the tender flesh of his palm, holding it out to him. Blood dripped onto the carpet in bright red beads.

" _Vampires_ ," Amshel said, and the wound slowly began to heal. "Immortal men. Creatures of the night. You were not mistaken when I said that photograph was the two of us. Solomon Goldsmith and myself, taken all those years ago."


	10. on his madness

He had to be stopped.

Somehow, in Karl's madness, his strength had increased tenfold, and so it fell to Nathan as the strongest to bring him in line. "He is insane!" Amshel said. Nathan watched as Amshel paced, the growing panic over what they did rising in him like bile. "He obsesses over Saya like a goddamned lunatic," Amshel said. "Says she is the only one who can bring him release. Diva is so angry she will go mad."

"Some would say she already is," Nathan said. Amshel only stared. 

He found him on the rooftop. Nathan watched, stone-faced and silent, as Karl fed luxuriously on the dead girl, draining her blood before letting her body fall with a dull thud. 

"Subtlety was never your strong suit," Nathan said, and he stepped out from the shadows. "My sweet boy. I am all for theatrics as the next man, but _this_ ," and he spread his hands, waving at the cape and the mask and the two dead girls lying at Karl's feet. "Well. I think we can both agree this is a tad much."

"Hmph." Karl turned, his cape catching the wind and rising like a banner behind him. "I gave them a beautiful gift. Something you or I will never achieve." Karl glanced back, the fringe around his mask catching the moonlight as he did. Nathan shook his head, frowning.

"You are aware, then, what the French call orgasm?" Nathan asked. " _That_ ," and he gestured to the bodies, frowning with distaste, "is nowhere near the beautiful death to which you are referring. Darling, you are confused," Nathan said, and he stepped closer. "Running around all hours of the night, wearing that ridiculous cape and mask. Really. We must put a stop to this."

Above them, the clouds shifted, moonlight darkening then coming out again, washing everything with a pale silver glow. Nathan frowned and watched as Karl stood, still and unmoving with only his cape and hair catching the wind. 

"It is hurting Diva," Nathan said, finally. Karl's eyes widened only slightly before taking that same disaffected look, a haughty knowing that only Nathan himself had mastered. 

And then Karl began to laugh.

It started low, welling deep from the bottom of his throat, before spilling out like crashing waves, loud and unending and overtaking the silence of the night. He laughed and for once in Nathan's long life he wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure how to react when he saw the madness darting in Karl's eyes or the laughter bubbling from his throat. 

"Solomon put you up to this, didn't he?" Karl said. He laughed again, wild-eyed, then flash-stepped across the roof and to where Nathan was standing, lurching forward and invading his personal space. "Amshel is writing it in his little book. Isn't he? _Isn't he?_ "

"Stop this," Nathan said, but Karl turned away. "There is an order to my house which you must obey. _My house_ ," Nathan said, but Karl stared at him, unblinking. "My rules."

"This is not your house," Karl said, and he launched skyward, leaping from rooftop to rooftop and disappearing into the fog.

 

******

 

"What did he _do_?" Solomon cried, when the other chevaliers crowded around the bedroom, horrified. Dead bodies strewn across the bed, naked and bloodied, black hair limp and cut like their Queen's, their pale cracked lips reddened with dried caked-on blood.

"This has got to stop," Amshel said. Karl smiled.

"I am acting only as I should," Karl said. "A _blautsauger_. Bloodsucker. Feeding on immoral flesh. Isn't that what you taught me, Amshel?" Karl said. Amshel shook with anger.

"Her blood has corrupted you," Amshel said. "Her blood has made you insane!"

"Her blood has set me free," Karl said. "Free from the confines of your so-called _living_. It isn't polite, is it, sucking on the wounds of a young girl's neck?" His eyes glittered. "Perhaps I should drink their blood from a crystal chalice? Isn't that right, _Amshel-nii-san_."

"Karl, please," Solomon said. Karl turned.

"I am a man who was born unwanted," Karl said. He looked at Solomon and for once his eyes seemed lucid. Clear. "There is only one person who can give me that sweet release. Someday I will find her."

 


	11. shattered glass

Karl was dead. Diva stared at him, her sweet Solomon, as he delivered the news.

"How?" Diva said. He hesitated only for a moment. Then, "He made a gambit with Saya. He bit her and drank her blood."

"And why should I care?" Diva said. She raised her chin, indignant. "Saya-neesama was the one he wanted and Saya-neesama was the reason he got himself killed. He was dead to me," Diva said, and she turned. But not before she saw Solomon begin to shake.

"He loved you," Solomon said. Diva's shoulders stiffened. No chevalier dared to speak up to her. "Diva! I cannot believe you to be so blind as to not know that. Everything he's done, everything you forced him to become, was because of you."

He stepped closer, holding out his hand.

"That is all that remains of him," Solomon said. "Nothing more."

He placed the crystal in Diva's palm.

She closed her fist, covering it with her hand. The crystal was smooth and hard and felt cool against her palm.

Karl. Her odd little chevalier. The one with the soft brown eyes. The one she had slowly driven mad.

Soundlessly, her mouth moved, closing, then opening again, before everything that was inside her welled up and bubbled over. There was nothing after death. This much she knew. Slowly, she cried until she howled with grief and rage, clawing at her eyes and crushing the lump of crystal in her hand. She sobbed and sobbed until the crystal fractured, a chrysalis shattering, swirling then catching the updraft like dust.


	12. end

"He betrayed you," Amshel said. Diva stood, looking over Solomon's body as she pushed one limp shoulder with the toe of her shoe, frowning. "What will you do now?"

"Hmph," Diva said. "Use him for your experiments for all I care. It doesn't matter."

"As you wish."

Her face betrayed nothing when Amshel and his guards hoisted the body up, hefting Solomon across the grass and throwing him onto the stretcher. Slowly, she walked through the garden, down the rose-lined path and to the gates of her home. 

In her bedroom, she collapsed onto herself, back against the door and crying. Everybody leaves. Even her sweet Solomon. Diva squeezed her eyes, her chest wracked with the staccato subglottal stops of her crying. A disordered kind of breathing. She lifted a shaking hand and hugged herself. 

"Saya-neesama," Diva said. "Saya-neesama. Why doesn't anyone love _me_?"

The emptiness of the room had no answer.

 

******

 

_The candlelight was flickering, casting an ambient glow across the room. Diva had complained loudly that the light would not let her sleep, but Karl lit the candle anyway, climbing in the bed beside her._

_"I hate the light," Diva said. He felt her press up against the hollows of his body, glaring into his chest. "It makes me sick."_

_He brushed back the soft hairs from her temple, pressing his lips against her skin. "Annoying," Diva said, and she smiled and closed her eyes._

 

******

 

They do not hold a funeral.

The place where they had fought, where Saya had exploded like a phoenix over the scorched earth, is razed, the once tall grasses burnt and trampled underfoot. Slowly, Solomon makes his way through the ruins to the place where Karl had died, the pile of crystals glinting in the watery sun.

Foolish. Everything was foolish. Sister against sister. Brothers murdering brothers. Silently Solomon picked through the ashes, wondering what the hell it was all for.

In his mind, he remembers the village. The wind will rise and fires will dim to a muted orange, and when the sky opens and begins to rain, he'll take the crystal in his hand, and wait for the storm to finally wash over.

 

end.


End file.
